


A True Gentleman

by specialrhino



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 11:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5537765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/specialrhino/pseuds/specialrhino
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A gentleman's name should only appear in the newspaper three times in his life: when he's born, when he gets married, and when he dies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A True Gentleman

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lysanatt (Natt)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=lysanatt+%28Natt%29).



> Merry Christmas, lysanatt!! Your prompts were great.
> 
> Many, many thanks to glovered and oddishly, wonderful betas and without whom I probably would not be writing for spn.

While Dean made enchiladas, he listened to Sam's chatter over the phone with half an ear.

"--and then it turns out my client hadn't dated the will properly, so actually the previous one was valid."

"Uh huh."

"This kind of thing happens more often than you’d think."

The boom box in the corner reached the end of side A -- Dean clicked the tray open and flipped the tape around, phone against his ear, wooden spoon threatening to drip sauce on the linoleum floor.

"Yeah, uh huh."

"You haven't been listening to a thing I've been saying."

"Uh hu-- wait, what?"

Sam laughed. "I'm glad you're happy, Dean. It's great that you've finally found a job you love."

Dean had enjoyed being a cop, despite Zachariah being the douchiest boss ever and the department's rampant nepotism. He’d liked feeling like he was making a difference. But everyone's mysterious hatred of his partner Benny and his subsequent mysterious transfer to several states away had finally gotten him to quit.

Any reservations he’d had about moving to the private sector and becoming a P. I. had evaporated in the first month. It turned out being your own boss was amazing: he could choose his own cases, drink on the job, and could go out of his way to drop in on Sam for lunch whenever he wanted. It also paid more for less hours. It was a win all around, as far as he was concerned.

All of this would have sucked royally if he didn't have clients, but he was booked solid, possibly due to Sam having added him to something called Yelp.. Even though it was near the holidays, business hadn’t flagged at all, and he was burning the midnight oil to finish his current case so he could take a three day break for Christmas.

Just because Dean was happy, didn't mean he wanted to talk about it. "I'm sure 'Luci' would love to hear about all of your lawyer crap," Dean deflected.

"What?" Sam squawked, in a way that sounded way manlier than when Dean did it. The world was so unfair. "How did you--?"

"I saw the number on your phone. New flame, Sammy?"

"Maybe," Sam huffed. "Luci was very interested, actually."

"When am I going to get to meet her, huh? Is she hot?"

Sam was suspiciously silent.

Dean imagined Sam’s constipated expression and snickered. "Is she NOT hot? I won't judge, man."

Sam gave one of those laughs that was half exhale, half exasperation. Dean could practically hear the accompanying eyeroll. "C’mon, which one of us is the detective here? Bye, Dean, I'll talk to you later."

Dean heard the click of the call disconnecting before he could respond. He frowned down at his phone. "See if I tell you any of my secrets," he told it. Not that he had any. He thought your life was supposed to take a turn for the grim and gritty once you became a P. I., but Dean's experience was quite the opposite. He hadn't felt so even-keel since he'd been a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed rookie cop.

Or maybe, he thought, making a mental note to find his flashlight clip before he left, he was just excited that he got to break the law again.

 

If Dean was anything, it was good at his job. He got into the hotel and retrieved his client's...property...and all in under four hours. The plan went off without a hitch. Except...except. There was no way he could have planned being stuck inside due to a freak snowstorm of all things. Peering out the hotel window, he ascertained that he would probably be able to make it to his car, but there was no way he could drive home in that.

He looked around the ritzy hotel lobby, the cheery lights at odds with the midnight quiet. On one hand, he should probably get out of here so he didn’t get caught by the person who had previously been in possession of Dean’s client’s property. On the other, he didn't relish the idea of sitting out the brunt of the storm in his car huddled against a heating vent.

"Looking for something?” asked a deep voice behind him that made Dean want to shiver even as he tensed in shock. He stuffed the letters in his pocket and whirled around.

Let's see what he was up against -- a nice suit, fancy cane, and -- holy crap, that was Death. Death, the most powerful business mogul in the greater Chicago area. On the surface, he owned a number of hotel and restaurant chains, but his family historically had a hand in the local government and who knew what else.

Some people even said he was so powerful he controlled the weather, which was obviously ridiculous. Only ordained priests could do that, and everyone knew it was mostly restricted to clearing a patch of light in the clouds or calling up a wind, but still. The point was, this guy was just that scary.

“Uh, no. Not looking for anything.” Dean licked his lips nervously and tried not to look guilty. 

Death's eyes tracked the motion. Interesting.

Dean shifted his weight to make his posture more inviting. He happened to have a thing for older men, and Death was certainly easy on the eyes.

"So," said Dean, pretty sure he was reading this right, "I hear no one will be getting out of here until morning."

Death raised an eyebrow.

And that was that. Dean got the guy (and some pleasant rope burn), closed the case the next day and rode off into the sunset in his '67 Chevy Impala.

But, as it turned out, that was only the beginning.

 

 

Dean didn't expect to see Death again, let alone see him sitting in the chair usually reserved for Dean’s clients a few days later. Dean looked around the pizzeria, with its homey gingham tablecloths and delicious breadsticks, and wondered if he had the wrong address.

"Dean Winchester, is it?" Death -- fucking Death, Death was his fucking client -- paused for a moment and waited to see whether Dean was going to add anything. "Join me, Dean. The pizza's delicious."

Dean had slept with clients before, but usually it was after he finished working for them. Or at least after he had introduced himself. They were also usually many magnitudes lower profile. "Uh," he pulled out his notebook and read his notes. "This is a missing person's case? You wanted to find your...nephew?"

"That is part of it," Death said silkily. Damn that voice. He gestured to Dean’s slice of pizza. "Eat."

Death stared Dean down until he had taken a bite. It really was delicious. Then he slid a picture across the table of a hot blond in a sports car. Guileless smile, check. A sharp mind with a party boy exterior, Dean guessed.

"How long has he been missing? Have you filed a police report?" Have you turned it on and off again? he mentally added.

"I'm sure he's alive and well, I'd just like to keep an eye on him."

"He's 28, you don't think he can look after himself?"

"I last saw him a month ago, when he started dating a Samantha. He hasn't done anything conspicuous since then, and suddenly I get a call from my lawyer last week saying he's found a problem with my father's will, and that with the older version, the company is entailed away to Lucifer if he marries before I do. Imagine my distaste at the news."

"And you think I can prove the will has been falsified,” Dean said, filling in the blanks.

"You have an inflated sense of your own importance, of course you can't.” Dean bristled at the casual slight, but Death carried on. “But you can help me take the bullets out of Lucifer's gun, so to speak. I want you to find my nephew, follow him to this Samantha, and discover what their intentions are.” 

"So you want me to find this guy and scare off his girlfriend."

"Precisely. Far be it from me to interfere in my nephew's happiness, but I’ve put too much work into this company to watch it fall into someone else’s hands. I'm more influential than you could even begin to process, and here I am, enslaved to the marital prospects of a bratty child."

Dean tried not to fidget under Death’s intense eye contact.

Death held up the back of his hand to Dean. “I think you know what this is.” He took off his ring and held it out. 

"Uh-- yeah." In a city like this, it was connections that got you the information you wanted. Dean had been doing pretty well on his good looks and charm, but something like that would cut his work in half. No palms would need be greased. There were also quite a few doors that would literally open at the touch of that ring.

"I'm inclined to give it to you."

Dean had gathered that, but that still didn't tell him why. This all seemed far too good to be true. "Give it to me," he repeated.

"For the duration of this case, yes. This will get you anywhere, no questions asked. You wouldn't want to get caught like you were the other night."

"You -- that was! --"

"Please tell me you don't play poker with that body language, Dean. Anyway, there are conditions, of course.”

"Okay. Like?"

"You will have to perform any additional services I deem related to this case."

All of Death’s business was above board and by the books, as far as Dean had heard, and Dean was already willing to sleep with him for free, so -- "Okay, yeah."

"That better be ‘yes,’ Dean. You know you can't cheat Death."

Dean cleared his throat. "YES," he said louder, just as the room did one of those things where all of the conversations lull at once and it's like everyone has stopped to listen to you. He tugged on his collar, feeling awkward. When the conversations in the room picked up again, Dean leaned forward in his chair. "Yes, I can certainly work with that."

Death tapped at his phone for a few moments and then put it back in his briefcase. "My assistant will have a contract ready for you after dinner, then."

"Right," said Dean. The ring was heavy as it dropped into his palm, and warm. He wanted to put it in his pocket, but, knowing his luck, he would probably lose it. He put it on for safekeeping.

Death, meanwhile, was waving the waitress over. "That's business handled then. Pie?"

 

 

He woke up to 10 missed calls from Bobby and a deep dish hangover. How did Death keep that frame if he ate stuff like that all the time?

His phone buzzed in his hand when he picked it up. It was a text from Sam. "Dean, what have you done." Oh no, it was punctuated. The punctuation meant panic. He scrolled to the next text, and it said CHECK THE DAMN PAPER.

On the front page was him. Two pictures of him, actually. One was with Death holding out a ring for him to take, and the next was him smiling at Death over the pie (he'd really been smiling at the pie), the ring on his finger catching the light.

The headline was "He Said 'Yes!': Death Ties the Knot"

Dean choked on air.

 

 

The third time Dean met Death (read: stormed up to his house to demand what was going on), Death opened his front door and tsked at him. "No, no, that won't do at all."

A maid whisked him away and the next thing he knew, Dean was wearing a suit and being handed into the back of a limousine. Death was waiting for him inside, with a glass of either coke or rum and coke in hand. There was a red and white bendy straw in it.

"What is this?" Dean spluttered.

"This is me taking advantage of the situation life has handed me," Death said dryly.

"Excuse me?"

"Well, if the public thinks we're engaged, I can hardly disappoint them. I’m on the way to the hospital’s charity ball -- how good of you to join me as my plus one."

"What are you talking about? And why would you want your name connected to a random P.I. you found out of the phonebook? Usually my clients and I keep our relationship on the d/l."

"I wouldn't have come to you if you hadn't been thoroughly checked out, Dean. I wouldn't tell my family secrets to just anyone, you know."

"I can't go to something with you when people think we're engaged!" Just saying the words sent a weird feeling to the pit of Dean’s stomach, but he brushed it off.

"You've already agreed,” Death said calmly. “This is an 'additional service,' and certainly pertains to the case. What better place to pick up on information than at a gathering of my nephew and my own mutual acquaintances?"

"Fine," Dean conceded through gritted teeth. 

Death loudly sucked at his straw. "Of course, you could just marry me, and just take the deal. Simple business strategy."

Dean just barely managed to not choke on his drink. "Excuse me? And why would I want to do that?"

"The new will doesn't say I need to _stay_ married. If you married me, you wouldn't have to investigate at all. Do I have to do all of your thinking for you? You would be amply rewarded of course," Death said in a way that reminded Dean vividly of the night they'd spent together. And then, in a milder tone, "You'd keep the ring for the duration of our marriage, of course."

Dean was too busy boggling at him to answer. Marriage was....sacred lifetime happiness…picket fences...sandwiches with your kid in a sun-painted kitchen...and shit. Dean was certainly not due for any of those things.

"Consider it," Death ordered, and whatever smart remark Dean had on the tip of his tongue was cut off by the limo coming to a stop, which was fortunate, because Dean didn't have one. 

The limo had stopped in front of an imposing mansion that was shaped like someone had planted a massive kleenex box in the ground and peppered it with stone curlicues.

When they were led inside, some guy in a waistcoat took Dean's swanky, borrowed jacket. Dean braved an indulgent smile from the hostess with much paranoia and the martyred air of the paparazzo’ed until he realized that she had zeroed in on his hand at the crook of Death’s elbow. 

Dean laughed nervously at her.

They passed an honest-to-god marble staircase on the way to the ballroom, and the ballroom itself was lined with random statues of animals and greco-roman art that didn’t seem to match. _Noveau riche_ , was Dean’s guess. 

They were stopped three steps into the room by one of Death’s acquaintances, which began a surprisingly pleasant half-hour of Dean standing with Death's hand at the small of his back saying noncommittal things to dazzlingly wealthy people. Dean was unable to learn anything about Lucifer that Death hadn't already told him, but he did notice that in spite of their dazzling wealth and very neat appearances, the party goers were very much like the rest of the population. The whole mantle of authority, stop-you-with-a-stare thing was just pure Death, then.

Dean managed to detach himself from Death's side to follow a waiter carrying a platter of delicious cheese tarts, of which Dean had already had four.

And that was when he saw his brother, towering over the rest of the room. Dean had been too absorbed in his role as pretty plus one to see it apparently, and had somehow missed Sam’s six foot twenty inch frame. He’d never seen Sam dressed in anything but jeans and a ratty hoodie, or one of his horrendous flannel shirts. The lawyerly world really was a glamorous one, if these were the kinds of functions Sam got invited to.

Then he saw who was standing on Sam's other side. It was the nephew. Lucifer. What the -- 

He goggled. _Luci_. Sam's Luci was _Lucifer_.

Dean dodged behind a marble column on the side of the room so he could stop and think for a moment. And breathe heavily. When he'd gotten himself mostly under control, he stealthily (or so he hoped) approached Sam from behind and tugged on his elbow.

Lucifer started to turn, and Dean gave a fake smile and muttered, "If you'll excuse us," before dragging Sam a sufficient distance away. The job was important, but this was his brother. All concerns came second to Sam.

"What the hell are you doing?" he hissed.

Sam adjusted his bowtie and had the nerve to look angry at Dean. "What am _I_ doing? What are _you_ doing, Dean? _Engaged_?" he hissed back, ducking his head down to be on huddle level with Dean. “I haven’t seen you for days, and suddenly you’re the trophy fiance to one of the most powerful business moguls in Chicago? Tell me it’s not real.”

"Of course that's not real. And it doesn't matter -- _Lucifer_? That's who Luci is?! That rich guy?"

"I never told you Luci was a woman --" Sam started, as if that was what Dean cared about.

"This is serious. I've been hired to investigate you, Sam. His uncle wants to know if you're going to be the next Mrs Lucifer and try to take over the family fortune. And if you are, he's probably going to order a hit on you or something. This is Death we're talking about!"

Sam scoffed. "Why would it matter who he's dating? Lawyer isn't the typical MO for a gold digger."

"Apparently Lucifer disappeared, started dating you, and now suddenly Death's old man's will is declared invalid."

"Huh," said Sam. "No wonder he found my work so interesting. What does that have to do with me?"

"If Lucifer marries you, he gets the business."

Sam tugged on his dorky bowtie again and Dean slapped his hand away.. "We're just having fun, Dean. I don't know what kind of intel Death has been getting, but I'm pretty sure Lucifer just wants me for my body."

As if to prove this point, an arm wrapped around Sam's waist. Speak of the devil. "Sam? Who's this?" Luci purred.

"Lucifer, this is my brother, Dean."

Lucifer looked at him with interest and then snapped his fingers in recognition. "Mr. Winchester, was it? Or should I call you Uncle?" he smiled cloyingly. “You've really loosened him up. I just worry sometimes."

"Mr.- ah - Lucifer." Dean cleared his throat. "I thought you weren't in town?"

"I've been mostly out of the public spotlight, yes, but I felt I just had to make an appearance to offer you and my uncle my felicitations." He paused for a beat, maintaining creepy, intense eye contact. "But now that I've had the pleasure, we really should be going." He waved at one of the huge, curtained Rococo windows. "The weather looks bad. Have a safe drive home, Dean. We wouldn't want you to get into any accidents, now would we." He patted Dean on the shoulder and whisked Sam away, hand on the small of his back.

Creepy. Dean felt unclean. There was something wrong with that guy. Sam, on the other hand, looked more amused at the exchange before leaving with Luci to go meet some other socialites. Sam really knew how to pick them.

Dean picked up a plate of canapes on his way back to Death. The guy was skin and bones.

“Interesting,” said a familiar voice from behind him. 

Dean jumped. “Jesus, Cas!” He turned around to find Cas a few inches away, and jumped again. Dean should have guessed he would be here - charity events like this often called for discreet police presence, and Cas’ unobtrusive air meant he was usually the one the force sent. Cas was Dean’s closest friend from his days as a cop. He still got Dean information sometimes.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat a plate of vegetables before,” Cas continued, unheeding. Then, leaning in and peering at Dean, “Is something the matter?”

“Everyone’s been sneaking up on me lately, is all. First Death, then you -”

“Ah yes, Death,” Cas said, with a curious and nigh undetectable degree of familiarity. “I saw you came with him. He’s a good person, Dean.” He said the last with very earnest eye contact.

"You know Death?" Dean asked incredulously.

Cas looked at Dean in that unnerving no-blinking way of his. "He is a distant relation."

Dean took the cue and didn't ask. Cas had a kind of messed up family life, too.

"Still," said Cas, "this is the happiest I've ever seen him. He's usually much more reserved."

Dean looked from Cas' deadpan expression to Death's dour one.

Right.

He slung an arm around Cas' shoulder. "Let's go find the bar."

 

At about the time Dean was itching to leave, a dude in a penguin suit that somehow looked more butler-like than every one else’s suits announced to the guests that the charity gala was snowed in. For the second time that week, Dean found himself snowed in somewhere. What was it with the weather lately?

"How inconvenient," said Death. He didn't sound at all surprised. The only hint of emotion he showed was annoyance, when the hostess told him Lucifer "and his cute plus one" (this with a giggle) had checked out just as the storm had started to pick up.

Luckily the gala was in a mansion, and had many -- actually prepared -- rooms for the guests to sleep over in. Dean began to suspect that he was in an episode of Gossip Girl, not that he'd watched any of that show. Rufus was hot, okay?

Unluckily, what with the entire world thinking Death and Dean were "engaged", they were given a room to share. Dean grumbled about it for about as long as it took for him to realize they had some sort of master suite complete with fluffy bathrobes and then claimed the right side of the four poster bed. He flopped down and promptly sank in half a foot. Nevermind, being snowed in was one of the best things that could possibly have happened to him. He was in heaven.

Death seemed unmoved, and pulled out his laptop to begin to work. He spread out a book next to Dean’s face and used it as a mousepad.

"Seriously?" Dean asked. “I’m trying to bliss, here.”

Death obligingly put it away, shutting his laptop onto a marble side table. Then he picked up his phone.

Dean plucked the blackberry out of his hands. "Go to sleep, man, you look exhausted. Also --" he checked the time on the confiscated phone. "--it's now technically Sunday. The day of rest."

He stared at Death until he put the blackberry on the bedside table with the air of someone indulging a small child.

Dean lay for a quarter of an hour in darkness and quiet, blessed darkness and quiet. Except..."Do you ever shut off?” Dean whispered. “I can hear you thinking, dude.”

"What are you going to do to stop me?" Death asked in a low voice.

Dean found he could be persuaded to stay up a little longer.

So maybe Dean slept with him again. In for a penny, right? Although Dean was usually a love-em-and-leave-em kind of guy. As in, mainly one-night stands. People already thought they were engaged, though, and also Dean had already seen what Death could do with one tie; it would be idiotic to pass up an opportunity where he had two at his disposal.

Dean stormed off that morning (after availing himself of a free breakfast) to see how much headway he could make in his other cases while the city thought he was the kept man of the the most influential businessman in the state. As he was pulling on his black dress pants like someone about to do a really epic walk of shame, Death looked at him in a way that seemed to say, _have you considered it?_

Which, no, Dean certainly wasn't going to consider. Marriage was happily ever after and unicorns and daisies and stuff, and Dean didn't even _date_. So no, he hadn't considered it. He 100% was not tempted to get married to Death and enjoy the benefits of a maid service, regular (and mindblowing) sex and closing a case that was uncomfortably close to Sam.

Sam. Dean thought back to how creepy Lucifer was and wondered about his designs on Sam. His brother could take care of himself, but if Dean clearing up this legal business could stop something unsavory form happening to him....

But no, that was a big maybe. Dean was going to need a really good reason (that wouldn’t end in Sam yelling at him for being overprotective) to marry someone out of the blue.

 

 

A few nights later, Dean was up tossing and turning as the weather howled outside. He saw that it was 2 a.m., the numbers bright red on the face of the old radio he’d built in high school and still used, despite Sam’s attempts to buy him a new froofy one. There was a quiet hum of his apartment that abruptly d to a hum and tried to count sheep. The apartment felt silent, too silent.Twenty minutes later, Dean learned the quiet came from his heater being broken. It was not a good night.

The next morning, Dean found a bouquet of roses and a note on his doorstep, unruffled by last night’s storming.

Dean looked around self-consciously before smelling the roses. He flipped open the note. _My house has heating,_ was all it said.

 

 

It was a small but elegant ceremony, at a chapel dripping with irises, roses and marigolds. Sam, Bobby were there as Dean's family. And Crowley too, who was practically family at this point, although he vacillated between honorary uncle and disreputable cousin. And someone had invited Cas, who showed up looking awkward in a threadbare grey suit.

Lucifer was in the second row next to Sam, teary eyed with either genuine or very well-feigned happiness. Dean kind of hated that guy, but loved the smile that he kept catching on Sam’s face these days.

"Dean," Sam had said over the phone the night before, "you know you don't have to go through with this, right? If Lucifer forged a flawed copy of the will to get it invalidated, I might be able to find the original for you."

It was to save Death’s company, Dean told himself. But that was only part of it now. He had fiddled with the ring on his finger and thought about the many reasons this could go wrong. But then he thought about his shitty apartment as compared to Death's sweet digs. And the way Death's commanding voice made him feel tingly all over. And the way Death looked at Dean, like he knew everything Dean had ever done and found him no worse than anyone else. People climbed mountains and went to the moon for that kind of unsentimental affirmation, and Dean thought he might have found it just a couple miles away in urban Chicago. "Nah, I think I've got it covered."

"Well, for what it's worth," Sam had said, "I really think Lucifer has his uncle's happiness at heart."

 

There was also a cameraman who kept snapping candid photos of Dean when Dean was tying his shoes and crap. Dean had heard that kind of thing was normal, but the guy had also brought a video camera.

"For legal reasons, you understand," Death told Dean.

The ceremony would have been as classy as the venue but then Death pulled on Dean's hair during the "you may kiss the groom" moment and Dean kind of lost it.

"Legal reasons" really did not explain why, a week later, he was looking at the third replay of him making out with Death at the altar on the news, a really obvious love bite high on his neck. Dean slapped his hand over that spot, as if he could belatedly salvage his dignity.

"Oh god," he said to himself, clutching the TV remote in his hand. "I'm his hot young thing, aren't I?"

Dean looked down at the sandwich he was making for Death (dude looked like a skeleton, seriously. You can't live on soda and coffee and the pleas of your underlings alone.) and sighed.

 

Work picked up for both of them and Dean, as per usual, got over-invested. Things like adjusting to a new house and having a hyphen in his last name ranked far below finding the missing relatives of strangers and helping lawyers clear their clients’ names. Before Dean knew it, he was suddenly was in the kitchen making breakfast while Death was in the shower and realizing he'd been married for two and a half months, in a fake relationship but he and Death were faking it really well. It was better than any relationship he’d ever been in, ever. He was living a lie.

“I’m living a lie,” he told Sam into the phone. He had picked up his cell to tell his landlord he was moving out but had somehow dialled his brother instead.

Sam only laughed at him.

“Dude, see if I help you next time you need advice.”

Sam’s laughter subsided a little at the serious edge to Dean’s voice. “I’m down to rescue you from your hilarious accidental marriage, Dean. But correct me if I’m wrong here...you seem kind of, I don’t know...happy?”

Nothing in Dean’s life was like what he'd imagined for himself, he was happier than he thought he could ever be. Maybe he had been due for the sacred lifetime happiness white picket fence thing after all.

“Is that, like…” Dean said, at a loss. “Is that like, allowed?”

“Yeah,” Sam said in that sympathetic way of his. Dean could practically see his unnecessarily flared nostrils. “Yeah it is.”

Nine and a half months later, on he and Death’s one year anniversary, Dean got a letter from Lucifer in the mail. It was the original will. There was a sticky note with a smiley face attached. 

Dean regarded it for a moment, and then burned it.


End file.
